


Snap it in Half

by nekare



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:55:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nekare/pseuds/nekare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is something wrong between them, Remus knows, something about the way their breathing is short and unpredictable when they stand too close, something about the way the teasing and joking has grown stale and their fingers sweaty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snap it in Half

There is something wrong between them, Remus knows, something about the way their breathing is short and unpredictable when they stand too close, something about the way the teasing and joking has grown stale and their fingers sweaty. The mere oxygen around them creaks and crackles with electricity, with the tension and the anger.

Sirius fakes a smile on a Tuesday, and Remus bangs the door.

\---

Padfoot is still as caring as ever, jumping in the middle of the flat with his tongue rolled out, waiting anxiously for Remus to take him out for a walk, and Remus laughs softly and complies after all the groveling.

He kicks pebbles while walking behind the over-excited dog in the park, throwing random sticks and telling fearful children that it’s okay to pet him, that no, he won’t hurt them, and while they’re at it, why don’t they play horsie? The kids throw their arms into the air, grins on their faces, and Remus wonders just when he had become such a sadistic person as he sees the grim looks Padfoot is sending his way.

“What, you mean you don’t like having your hair tugged? Oh so, so, sorry,” he says with a sardonic smile and Sirius fuming on the door when they get back.

“You bloody well know I don’t, Remus!”

“Well, by the sounds coming from your bedroom every night, one tends to be misled.” He doesn’t yell, he doesn’t raise his voice, and yet the way he struggles to keep his tone sarcastic cuts them both.

Sirius grits his teeth, and Remus has tea.

\---

London blooms that week, bright, mania-inducing pink surrounded by a dreamy, lighter shade, cherry blossoms against the impossible blue sky that stands as a background. Remus stands under the largest tree in the neighborhood, stares at the flowers until the back of his eyelids are dotted with pink dots and the ever present sense of spring.

Sirius joins him some minutes later, mouth stained dark by the ice cream melting in his hands, and the urge to lick it off is almost frightening. “Look at them,” Remus says, pointing at the flowers but looking at him, and Sirius gazes lazily for a moment before turning his eyes towards Remus again.

“Figures. You only like the pretty ones, after all.” He starts walking away, the little spoon inside his mouth, and Remus has to chase him.

“What the hell do you mean?”

“You and your conquests, Lupin, all of the pretty birds that invade my bloody flat all the time.” Sirius says it matter-of-factly, an eyebrow raised, and he gets the ice cream filled spoon inside Remus’ mouth with a swift move before he can talk back.

Remus swallows, grimacing at the cold that makes his teeth ache. “Well _at least_ I don’t bring men back home and not even have the decency to cast Silencing Charms!” They’re almost in the stairwell that leads to the flat when he yells, but Sirius still snarls.

“It’s _my_ flat, and you’ve no right to make demands,” he says icily.

“No, Sirius, it’s _ours_ , damnit, but it doesn’t seem like you like it that way, does it?”

The don’t talk for the rest of the evening, and the next time he finds a strange man sneaking out the front door, he realizes he had never heard a thing that night.

(He also realizes that he feels somewhat cheated, that he had missed having Sirius’ moans in his dreams.

He finds a girl that night, fucks her silently in a Chinese restaurant loo, and doesn’t feel a thing.)  
\---

Sirius touches him too often, a brush of skin during dinner at James’, an eyelash removal in the middle of the street after Remus’ long, tedious job, but it isn’t until he stops seeing girls all together that he realizes he does the same thing, how he’ll take the excuse of a friendly wrestle to get a hold of his wrists, how he’ll always shave while Sirius is bathing, even when there’s not a valid reason to do so.

Now he sees why all of his girlfriends had hated Sirius so.

\---

Two weeks later and all he can think of is Sirius, Sirius and just how much he’d like to wipe the damn infuriating smirk off his face. Silence rules in the flat, spreading and curling over the corners and the little holes in the plaster, covering everything as Remus watches him over his book, as Sirius looks at him in return over his letters and they _don’t say anything at all_ , because Sirius has paid for all the groceries again, has offended his so-called-dignity by refusing to give him that little pleasure.

Remus had found a bar of chocolate under his pillow that morning, and he had opened a sliver of Sirius’ door only to throw it in, satisfied only with the pain-filled groan (a sleepy ‘Owww…’) that had accompanied it, and now the bar rests untouched on top of the coffee table that stands between them, and a vein in Sirius’ neck is twitching as if it wanted to burst.

Remus knows he’s being ridiculous, childish, and yet he doesn’t give in. He thinks he deserves having a little pride, after all.

\---

Breakfast is a quiet affair the next morning, has been for at least a few months as they both try to not kill each other in the old flat with its squeaky pipes and moss stains on the walls. The pressure in the room has reached never before seen limits; it’s making the walls flex with the heat emanating from them (their figures becoming shimmering reflections at the end of their visions, at the horizon of their thoughts). Something is about to snap.

And when it does, it’s because of a mug.

Remus has been searching through the cupboards for several minutes before he turns sharply and asks Sirius if he’s seen his favorite mug, _you know, the one with the word Vice engraved?_ and Sirius munches slowly on his toast and says, “Why, yes, I dropped it the other day. I already threw it out.”

And hell breaks loose.

“It was my favorite mug, you brute!” Remus says with his hands curled in fists, and Sirius’ eyebrows are pulled together.

“It was just a mug, Remus, an old one at that, no need to get your panties in a twist,” but even as Sirius says it Remus can see the way his muscles are flexing, his body tensing, and he just desperately _needs_ an outlet.

“But it was mine! And it seems like nothing else in this stupid place is anymore!” Remus stands closer, an accusing finger pointing at Sirius, and he _knows_ this isn’t about any stupid mug, but the exhilaration of the fight, of the thrill to bare your guts out.

Sirius stands up, the chair sliding smoothly over white tiles, and he puts both of his hands flat against the table surface. “Just what the _fuck_ is your problem, Lupin?” he yells, and Remus mimics his pose, leans close.

“You, Sirius, _you_ are my fucking problem,” he snarls.

“Me?” Sirius chuckles, darkly. “When I’ve dedicated half of my bloody life to make you happy, you little ungrateful wanker?”

“Stop it already with the guilt trips!” He turns his back to Sirius sharply, hands raking through his hair. “Christ,” he mutters.

“Oh, don’t you dare deny it,” taunts Sirius from behind him, and suddenly it’s _too much._

“Fuck it,” he says, and launches.

The punch catches Sirius unaware, pulls his head to his right with a dark red stain blossoming on his cheek (just like the flowers outside, just like this damned spring that has made Remus fall for the wrong person). A moment passes, Remus’ eyes opened wide as he can’t really believe what he has done, as Sirius lifts fingers up to his cheek, mouth curling in disbelief.

He finally turns to Remus. “Oh, that’s _it_.”

He punches back, blind with fury, and Remus just manages to duck. They grab at each other, trying to maim as much skin as they can, spitting words neither means but both feel enough right now. They stumble out of the kitchen, just in time for one of Remus’ fists to connect with Sirius’ stomach, who falls to his knees, out of breath.

“You _bastard_ ,” he says, wheezing, but Remus doesn’t give him time to recover as he throws himself on him, grabbing at his shirt, and Sirius hits him in the face with the heel of his hand. They wait for a second sprawled on the floor, Remus touching the cut on his lip, his fingers coming away bloody.

A momentary truce, and then they’re back at their feet, throwing punches that feed on adrenaline, on excessive testosterone. Sirius shoves Remus until he crashes with the kitchen bar, and his back bends painfully as he ends up sprawled on it, the glass of milk that had been resting on it falling to the ground with a splash. “You bastard and your bloody pride!” yells Sirius with his hands clutching the front of Remus’ shirt, his blunt fingernails digging into Remus’ skin, and Remus lets out a ragged breath as he kicks Sirius shins with all his strength.

He shoves back before Sirius can actually recover, presses him against the edge of one of the doorframes, and out of insanity, out of want, out of fucking _everything_ , kisses him instead of punching him, as violently and fierce, hands pressing into his shoulders.

Sirius’ breath leaves him suddenly, but then Remus kisses harder, keeps their eyes locked and from then it feels only natural to have Sirius’ hands under his shirt, pulling him close, scratching at the freckled skin. There’s Sirius’ tongue in his mouth, his own hands curling at the base of Sirius’ neck, and then Sirius shifts his hips and _oh,_ but that felt good.

Remus moans, trying to expel his frustration, and Sirius opens his eyes wide at the sound, pulling him even closer. Sirius starts rocking them, initiates a rhythm that Remus follows by inertia, breathy gasps leaving both of their open mouths as sparks start going off at the edge of Remus’ vision. Sirius kisses him again, brutal and urgent, and he can taste his own blood from his split lip, a sharp of bitterness in this senses-overload.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” mutters Sirius against his lips, a naughty mantra that makes Remus gasp and thrust faster. They shed their layers of clothing like a snake’s skin, a blue jumper for the winter that has just defrosted and died, a yellow one for the spring that promises annoying flowers caught on hair, underwear for the basic lust coursing through their veins.

Another kiss, and Remus’ hand goes between them to tease them both, a sigh and a pant and a moan from who knows who. Another minute, and Remus comes with his teeth around Sirius’ unbuttoned shirt, and Sirius follows three seconds later with his forearm around Remus’ neck just in order to support himself.

“Fuck,” he repeats after a while, as they pant together, laying in a nestle of limbs and discarded clothes. His tone is almost jovial. “Moony? You haven’t died on me, have you?” The nickname feels like threadbare cotton in Remus’ ears, known and comfortable, and he smiles, after all.

He mumbles a no against Sirius’ neck, and Sirius mumbles back in conversation. They sleep, and when they wake up, toes still curled and minds appeased, they find they can tolerate each other much better now.

It shouldn’t be that surprising, really.


End file.
